


Scarlet

by ThereBeWhalesHere



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Car Sex, Drugs Made Them Do It, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Smut, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Sex Pollen, Smut, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeWhalesHere/pseuds/ThereBeWhalesHere
Summary: Hank and Connor have gone undercover to root out the source of a new drug, Scarlet, a powerful aphrodisiac that's been known to kill first-time users. Unfortunately, to maintain their cover, Hank has to take a dose, and he needs Connor to help him with the after effects -- one way or another.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 44
Kudos: 638





	Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> Okay LISTEN, I had to. 
> 
> This may sound kind of dubcony from the description, but I hope the tags make it clear that there is PLENTY of consent here. These are just idiots in love who need a bit of motivation to admit to each other that they're dying to bone. (In Hank's case, literally, hahahaha) Okay, I'll shut up. Please enjoy!

It's all red. The peeling wallpaper, the dusty velvet trim over the empty stage, the lights over the bar glowing from under red glass, the booth’s faux leather upholstery -- currently sticking to Hank’s shirt and the sweat collecting at the dip of his back. Even the cocktail in its red-tinted glass and the pill held poised above it are red.

The whole scene could blend together into some kind of Rothko painting if Hank allowed his eyes to unfocus. But he's aware of every detail of the room, especially the sleezeball sitting across from him, smirking as he pinches the pill between two fingers and holds Hank's eyes. The sleezeball’s shirt is red, too. Silk, a triangle of thick chest hair peeking out over its ivory buttons.

"So," the man begins. Behind him, one of his cronies crosses heavy arms across a barrel chest. "This won't be a problem for you, will it?" He's holding the pill above Hank's drink, red powder on his fingertips where it's dissolving against his skin.

The sleezeball might be the ringleader, but he's not the only one waiting on Hank's answer. Six men surround him -- all standing as their boss sits, waiting, watching. Hank, for his part, has only Connor seated at his side. Connor, sitting still as a statue. If he had his LED in, that would be red, too.

There's one major rule with undercover drug busts like this one: Don't take the drugs. Connor won't be happy with him, but there’s no other way out. "No problem," he says, casual as can be. "I told you I've taken this shit before."

The sleezeball smiles, revealing a chipped front tooth. And without any preamble, he drops the tablet into Hank's drink. In the oppressive silence of the empty bar -- empty but for this clandestine meeting, of course -- it begins to fizz and crackle like an alka seltzer. It would seem so innocuous if Hank didn't know what it did.

"Does he really need to prove it to you?" Connor asks, leaning an elbow on the table.  _ Look casual, _ Hank had told him. He's getting better at it. "No matter his tolerance, he's going to be useless to you the rest of the night if he takes that now." Connor nods toward the drink, the drug dissolving in its depths, the whole reason they're here. It’s a derivative of red ice, but more lethal and more desirable all at once. Scarlet, they call it on the streets.

Connor's lucky, he's already proven himself to these dealers. They seem to think he's a super-human, able to take Scarlet without a hint of the drug's effects. But Connor, unlike Hank, doesn't have a digestive system. Doesn’t have veins or chemical receptors in his brain. It’s better for them if their new friends don’t know that, though.

Hank takes up the glass. "Relax," he tells Connor, leaning back in his seat as the pill swirls at the base of the drink, bubbles rising.

Connor shoots him a glare, but the sleezeball butts in before he can say a word.

"I don't let any new guys deal until I know they can handle this shit, alright?" He says. "You want in on this business? You prove you can take a dose yourself. That's the rules." He sniffs a laugh, thumbing the corner of his nose. "'Sides, you wouldn't deprive your friend of a good time on the house, would ya? This shit's better than Viagra, right old man?"

Connor's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but Hank lays an arm over the back of the booth, the only expression of comfort he can really offer Connor in a lion's den like this. “Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Hank lies. Connor’s glaring at the sleezeball, teeth clenched behind his lips. 

“What’s your problem?” One of the bodyguards snaps, and Connor’s eyes shoot straight up to him -- a brick wall of a man with knuckles thick and knotted as whorls of wood. “It ain’t dangerous.” 

It clearly takes a monumental effort for Connor to stop himself from correcting the cronie. In fact, Scarlet _ is _ dangerous -- the first time you take it, at least. It’s the most powerful aphrodisiac on the market, but if the user doesn’t, well,  _ follow through _ , their adrenal glands go crazy. The DPD has seen more deaths associated with Scarlet coming through their case records lately than red ice and heroin combined. All of those are first-time users. After that, it gets easier, or so the junkies tell them. You just have to survive your first hit.

As far as these fuckers know, Hank already has. Hank raises the glass to his lips.

“Wait,” Connor says, and Hank pauses. He shoots Connor a look. This is too important to get caught now. They  _ cannot  _ blow their cover now. Connor catches his eyes and seems to understand. “The pill hasn’t fully dissolved,” Connor finishes quietly, nodding to the glass. It isn’t what he wanted to say, Hank is certain. 

Hank doesn’t want to do this any more than Connor wants him to, truly. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do once the drug takes effect. Already he’s trying to think about who he can call, who might be able to provide some company for him tonight. 

The problem is, Hank won’t be able to take care of this on his own. At some point, he’ll lose coherency, lose even the ability to jack himself off like all those other poor fuckers who show up in the morgue with their cocks at a full stand. What a fucking way to go. 

Hank swallows a dry lump in his throat. The last bubbles of the pill pop at the surface of his cocktail. The sleezeball and his cronies stare. Hank tilts his head back, and drinks. 

Tension seems to bleed from the room as Hank’s throat bobs, draining the entirety of the glass in just a few gulps. The sleezeball leans back, arms flung over either side of the booth, and when Hank sets the empty glass on the table and meets the dealer’s eyes, there’s approval there.

“Aright,” the sleezeball says. “You go have yourself a good night, and you call me once you’re back on your feet. We’ll get you set up with some stock then.”

“Perfect,” Hank says, wiping his lips. “This shit’s a gold mine. Glad to be getting in on the ground floor, huh?” He nudges Connor with his elbow, giving his partner a smile. Connor attempts to return it. If Connor were a better actor, he’d be doing this whole sting operation on his own. Thankfully, he has Hank here to distract the dealers from his obvious discomfort. 

“I’m heading back to the motel,” Hank says, standing. “Before anything kicks in. You coming?” He glances down at Connor, who nods stiffly. 

“Of course.” He rises to his feet in one swift motion, moving to follow Hank out the empty bar and into the muggy Detroit evening.

The sleezeball chuckles behind them. “Shame Scarlet doesn’t work on you,” he says to Connor’s back. “Try to have fun with the old guy, anyway.” 

Connor doesn’t dignify that with a response, but practically drags Hank forward. Hank, risking a look at his partner, finds Connor’s brows knit in obvious anger, his nostrils flared, no longer pretending for the sake of their new friends. He’s the one who shoves open the heavy wooden door, who practically manhandles Hank out into the street and onto the sidewalk. He’s the one who makes a beeline for the autonomous car waiting for them nearby. 

The city lights are shining bright off in the distance, but not this part of town. The whole stretch of street seems abandoned, cast in total shadow. There aren’t even windows into the bar they just left, as if it exists in an entirely different world.

And just as the heat of the drug begins to pool subtly, quietly in his stomach, Hank realizes he just did something very, very stupid. 

“Connor,” he says, but the door to the car slides open and Connor clambers inside without even sparing a glance at Hank.

  
“Hey, Connor,” Hank follows him in and flops down on the seat beside Connor, the door sliding shut behind him. Connor stares straight ahead as the car lurches forward and pulls off the curb. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I didn’t see any other way out of it.” 

Connor’s lips are tight. “You’ll start feeling the effects of the drug in less than five minutes,” Connor snaps. “The nearest hospital is 20 minutes away, and even pumping your stomach now won’t help you.”

“I know,” Hank says. He shifts, his body feeling hot and agitated and restless.

“And if you don’t give into the drug’s impulses, you’ll die,” Connor reminds him, just as stiff.

“Yeah, pal, we’re on the same task force. I know.”

“So what’s your plan, then, Hank?” Connor asks. He turns to Hank, finally, and meets his eyes.

“Well, we gotta go back to the motel,” Hank says, gesturing forward. “Unless we want to blow our cover after all this.”

“We  _ are  _ going to the motel.” Connor nods to the screen on the car’s dashboard, currently tracing their route. “What about after that?” 

Connor doesn’t take Hank’s bullshit. It’s one thing Hank loves about him. One of many things. 

“If you’re trying to tell me I didn’t think this through --”

“I’m not ‘trying’ to tell you anything,” Connor says. “I  _ am _ telling you. You didn’t think this through.” 

“Listen,” Hank says again. His breath is coming out a little short. “I can take care of it myself for a little while.”

“And then?” Connor challenges. He turns to face Hank as the car speeds them forward. Their hotel is about ten minutes away; the Scarlet is going to kick in before Hank can get to a bed, get to safety and comfort. It’s going to kick in long before he can track down help. 

“I hate to -- to ask you...” Hank begins, cringing internally. Before he can figure out how to tell Connor he’ll need him to make some calls, find a few sex workers to help Hank out, Connor’s spine shoots straight, and his internal fans whir dangerously loud. 

“Ask…  _ me _ ?” Connor echoes, and the fire has left his voice entirely. It’s almost a peep.

For a second, the shift in Connor’s demeanor throws Hank, but he barrels past it -- there isn’t time to do much else. “I know it’ll probably be uncomfortable for you,” he says, “and I’m sorry, but --”

“No, Hank it -- it wouldn’t be. It wouldn’t be uncomfortable.” The android’s eyes have gone wide, his hand on his thigh digging into his jeans. Hank raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t mind? I have a contact who runs a few prostitution rings -- legal ones, promise. So, hey, it’s not like you have to go looking or anything.” Not that that makes it better, Hank reminds himself. He glances down, looking away from Connor’s eyes. “I hate to make anyone touch this shit --” he waves a hand at himself, already dreading getting undressed for some poor woman. “But I’d rather pay some sex workers than, you know. Die.” 

The silence that follows his admission feels heavy, and Hank’s stomach is churning. He’s beginning to sweat along his hairline, a tightness growing in his chest and a heat building in his gut, and he doesn’t know what’s arousal brought on by the Scarlet and what’s nervousness at his friend’s reply. 

“Sex workers,” Connor repeats after a while, and Hank finally looks back up to him. Connor’s got that look on his face, like he’s trying to solve a case. There are puzzle pieces fitting together behind his eyes, which doesn’t make much sense. They  _ did _ solve the case, found the dealers. The guesswork is over.

Oh, but Hank does love that look. It draws a line between Connor’s eyebrows, and his perfect pink lips pout just slightly when he’s thinking. Hank watches those lips, traces the curve of Connor’s frown down to his chin, his strong jaw, the elegant slope of his neck. Hank has always wondered if those freckles and moles appear over the rest of Connor’s body, or if he’s smooth and pale beneath his clothes. Hank could find out, could tug open the collar of Connor’s shirt...

_ Nope. _

Hank’s eyes shoot back up to Connor’s, and stay there. “What?” Hank asks. 

“I thought you were asking me to help,” Connor says. Maybe it’s because a cloud of vague yearning has begun to gather around Hank’s common sense, but he blinks slow, confused.

“I am.”

“No,” Connor says, hand clenching once more along his thigh. “I thought you were asking me to  _ help _ . To -- to take care of you tonight.” 

Hank’s stomach drops. The suggestion in those words sparks a flood of images, guilty, shameful images -- but not unfamiliar. Connor on his back, eyelids fluttering in pleasure, fingers clenched in bedsheets. Connor’s lips around Hank’s cock, hands on Hank’s thighs, holding him in place as he sinks down Hank’s length. 

And if Hank thought the Scarlet was taking a while to kick in, he’s now fully aware that it’s coursing happily through his veins, and now heading straight southward. Against his will, his cock throbs and hardens in his jeans.

“What? No, no,” Hank says, even as his mind screams the opposite. He shuffles away from Connor on the seat, hoping his sudden erection is less obvious with the new angle. “I wouldn’t -- Connor, there’s no way I’d ask you to --  _ no _ way.” 

Connor’s lips part, something in his expression shifting. “Oh,” he says. 

“My phone’s at the motel. I can get you a phone number and you can -- you can call for someone, and you don’t have to deal with me the rest of the night. I don’t …” Hank pauses, his breath hollow, his eyes laser-focused on Connor’s mouth, open and just begging to be kissed. “I don’t want you to see me like that.”

Desperate, needy, bare and writhing and sweating and crying out for release over and over again. He’s going to be insatiable, incoherent,  _ disgusting _ .

Hank’s erection throbs anew and he closes his eyes, tossing his head back against the seat. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?” Connor asks quietly. He sounds disappointed, and Hank regrets that he has probably lost a lot of Connor’s respect already tonight. And it’s only going to get worse. “We have about five minutes until we get to the motel. Can you hold off?” 

Embarrassed, a flush crawling up his cheeks, Hank presses the heel of his palm against his groin. “I can try,” he says. 

That seems to be the end of the conversation, because Connor doesn’t respond, and Hank doesn’t try to talk again. He keeps his hand pressed to his cock over the zipper of his jeans as if he can stop it from hardening. He keeps his eyes closed as if that will stop him from conjuring up every sinfully sexy thought he’s ever had about his partner. He keeps his focus on the steady momentum of the car driving them onward, as if that might distract him from the thought that Connor was willing to see Hank through this  _ himself _ . 

No matter who shares his bed tonight, Hank won’t be able to get that thought out of his head. Connor. Connor was willing to help him. He could have had Connor after all these long months of wanting him. The shame of it heats his cheeks further, but somehow doesn’t do anything to lessen the arousal. 

Soon, the pressure of his hand on his cock isn’t a relief -- it’s a tease. And without thinking he begins to move it. Just a little friction, rubbing back and forth along his hardening length, the thick denim muffling his touch so as to be nearly torturous. 

“Hank,” Connor says, nearly a whisper. Hank’s eyes shoot open, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s been burned. 

“Fuck,” he snaps, sitting up straighter, sucking in a breath through his nose. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Connor says. When Hank risks a glance, Connor’s staring straight ahead at the dark and empty road. “It’s probably not a good idea to … to wait. Do what you need to do.”

Hank nearly groans, but he bites the inside of his cheek instead. Reluctantly, he brings his hand back to his cock, pressing down through his jeans. He averts his eyes from Connor’s inscrutable expression, and hopes Connor doesn’t notice the flush that’s climbing up Hank’s neck. 

“I don’t wanna jack off in front of you, Con,” Hank mutters. He ignores, for the moment, that he has had fantasies of doing just that.  _ Connor watching him without blinking, fans humming inside him, whispering something filthy like ‘come for me, baby.’  _

Hank does groan this time, turning his heated forehead against the cool window of the car, streetlights sliding past. He presses down harder.

“Well, I don’t want you to die,” Connor snips. “I’d much rather you find a little relief before we get to the motel than drop dead on the doorstep.” 

Hank’s hand begins to move again, without his permission. He traces the line of his growing cock, fingertips sliding up and down its length. If this were Connor’s hand, it would be firm, intentional. He’d be attuned to all of Hank’s needs, squeezing gently at just the right moment, in just the right spot. Hank tries to imitate that touch as he turns away from his partner, eyes screwed shut. But where Connor’s hands are slender, Hank’s feel like unruly paws, and the fantasy wavers. He stops, frustrated, and grits his teeth.

“It’s okay,” Connor says from beside him. The shift of fabric, the creak of the seat. Connor’s knee hits Hank’s own. Connor’s facing him. Connor’s _ watching  _ him.

With a deep breath through his nose, Hank increases the pressure, squeezing his cock at its base. It’s laying thick and heavy against his thigh, aching. With his eyes closed, he can pretend he’s anywhere but where he is, turned on for any reason but his own stupidity. He can pretend Connor’s next words come from a wildly different context. 

“I’m here for you,” Connor says. “I’ve got you. Take it slow, alright?” The warm depth of his voice sends pleasure coursing through Hank’s system faster than the Scarlet itself. He nods numbly, trying to breathe as he rubs himself through his pants, more intentional now, harder. 

_ Take it slow, Connor says, and in Hank’s fantasy, Connor grinds down against him, rolling his hips. There’s pleasure on Connor’s face, too, his eyes hooded and heated and his hands resting on Hank’s shoulders to keep himself steady as he presses down, eases up, presses down.  _

“It’s okay,” Connor whispers again. A hand lands on Hank’s shoulder, soft and comforting, and Hank lets out an involuntary, choked off sound. He can’t take it anymore. He has to do something about the pressure, the pain, the wanting. 

He releases his cock, whimpering at the loss, and pops open his belt buckle as fast as his trembling hands can manage. But it isn’t until he unzips the fly of his jeans that he can breathe again, a sigh of relief so obscene he wonders that Connor hasn’t just ducked and rolled out of the damn car. 

“I’m sorry,” Hank groans, shoving his hand into his boxers and, finally, taking hold of his cock. It throbs in his grip. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Connor.”

“Don’t apologize,” Connor says. The hand on Hank’s shoulder clenches into his shirt. “I’m sorry I was upset with you. I’m sorry you’re going through this.” A tight breath -- Connor doesn’t even need to breathe. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“You’re helping,” Hank says, pulling himself from his boxers and pumping his cock, the freedom of movement and the pressure of a full fist causing stars to burst behind his closed eyelids. He’s going to come. He’s barely started and he’s already about to come. Whether it’s the drug or Connor’s hand on his shoulder or Connor’s eyes on him, he’s too far gone to care. “Fuck, Connor, I’m --  _ Oh _ , god.”

“Do you want me to look away?” Connor asks.

It’s the last thing Hank wants. He opens his eyes, opens his mouth to tell Connor to stay, to keep watching him, but it’s when he meets the warm-dark shine of Connor’s own eyes that the pleasure peaks. His breath hitches, a tight moan pulls itself from his throat, and he bucks up into his fist, his slick spattering his shirt and leaking over his fingers and easing his grip so it’s effortless to just keep tugging himself off, to keep his eyes on Connor’s.

The orgasm rolls through him like waves lapping a shore, not so intense as to black him out, but steady and consistent and pulsing, and bringing with it an even greater edge of desire. He keeps pumping himself almost absently, his lips parted to take in the hot air of the car, staring at Connor who’s staring right back at him. Somehow, he doesn’t feel any relief.

“S-- sorry,” Hank says again, his voice a croak. 

Connor’s eyes soften. With the hand still steady on Hank’s shoulder, he shifts to face Hank entirely, tucking up his legs on the seat. The car speeds onward into the night as Connor -- like a miracle, like a fantasy -- brings his other hand to the curve of Hank’s jaw. It’s warm, soft, his fingers threading through Hank’s beard. “You’ll need more relief than that, before the night’s out,” Connor says, as if stating a simple fact. “Keep going.”

Hank closes his eyes, tilting his face into Connor’s palm. “Fuck, don’t say that,” he says, but he picks up the pace of his fist anyway, tugging his relentless erection. “I keep going I don’t know if I can -- can stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” Connor whispers. 

“My phone. Need to -- to call someone. Get someone to --”

“To help.” Connor tugs Hank’s beard gently and Hank bites his lip, tightens his fist, thumbs his dripping head. 

“Yeah.”

“And if I told you,” Connor begins softly, “that I didn’t want you to call anyone? That I didn’t want to think of you with anyone else?” 

Through the fog of arousal clouding him, Hank manages a weak chuckle. “This isn’t the time for hypotheticals, Con,” he whispers.

Connor’s thumb caresses his cheek, a parting touch as he pulls away. Hank whimpers, turning back to the window, bucking into his fist. “Fuck.”

“Are you going to come again?” Connor asks calmly. 

Hank’s only answer is a low whine, the lewd sound of his slick fist sliding over skin filling the cramped car. Beside him, Connor shifts again. 

“Don’t --” Hank chokes, grimacing and keeping his eyes closed tight. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.  _ Don’t look away, don’t move, don’t stop talking to me.  _

A hand lands on his thigh. Then, closer than before, Connor whispers: “I want to.”

Somewhere outside the sphere of his awareness, the car rolls to a stop, and Hank forces his eyes open. They’ve arrived at the motel, a facade of darkened windows, walkways with crumbling railing. Hank wants to stare at the closed door of their room on the second floor, wants to wish himself behind it, but instead he turns to look at Connor. 

Connor, kneeling on the seat, steading himself with that hand on Hank’s thigh, staring at Hank’s cock. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, his shining eyes recall Hank of the Connor of Hank’s fantasies -- _ hungry _ .

Hank could come at the sight alone, but he grabs his cock right above his balls, holding off his orgasm. With Connor that close, he’d come all over the android’s soft, perfect face. He can’t do that to Connor, can’t ruin this delicate thing they have. Can’t --

Connor leans forward over Hank’s lap, lowers his head. 

“What -- what are you --” 

Before he can finish, Connor’s tongue flicks out, tastes the tip of Hank’s cock, and Hank throws his head back against the seat. “Fuck!” he shouts, and he fists his free hand in Connor’s hair to hold him back. “Fuck, Con, you don’t know what you’re --”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” He resists Hank’s hold, leans down again, and those soft lips close tight around Hank’s head. 

Hank groans, trying to force himself not to come. He can’t -- not like this, not with Connor, not -- 

“Con, please --”

Connor hollows his cheeks and sucks, sinking down Hank’s length, and (god help him) Hank must be hallucinating because he could swear Connor’s chest rumbles with some hum of pleasure that can’t possibly belong to him. 

“If you don’t stop,” Hank chokes, “I’m gonna -- gonna come in your mouth.” It’s not the most delicate warning, but it’s all Hank can manage. Connor makes that sound again, and his hand clenches into Hank’s thigh. He takes Hank down to his root, undeterred, and curls his tongue -- soft and wet and so, so good. 

Hank’s hand tightens in Connor’s hair. He can’t help it, can’t stop himself, and he bucks his hips into the heat of Connor’s mouth. “Connor,” he whispers, urgent. “Connor, please, I --”

Connor’s hand comes to Hank’s, eases it from his swollen base. He laces their fingers together. Without the impediment of Hank’s grip, Hank’s cock throbs and twitches in Connor’s mouth, and he’s at Connor’s mercy entirely, immobile and incoherent. Something wet drips down the curve of Connor’s chin, shining in the parking lot’s golden streetlights, and Connor’s long eyelashes flutter in pleasure. 

And fuck, Hank _ comes _ . This one hits him like a tidal wave, destructive and overwhelming and sweeping everything else away. He slams his head back against the seat, thrusts his hips up so he’s buried in Connor’s throat, practically shouts at the force of his release. Connor’s sucking down his spend, swallowing it effortlessly, his nose nestled in the curls of hair at Hank’s base. 

And his hand remains steadfast in Hank’s own, holding him tight. “Fuck,” Hank cries, blinking back tears. “Con,  _ please _ .” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. It’s too much and not nearly enough all at once, and he wants Connor to stop almost as much as he wants that hot mouth to keep doing _ exactly _ what it’s doing. 

But Connor pulls off of him with one long, sinful lick, and lifts his hooded eyes to Hank’s. And, fuck, he licks his lips like he’s just had the meal of his life. 

“Are you attracted to me, Hank?” he asks. Poor Hank, cloudy from his orgasm and throbbing with the urge to come again, to shove Connor’s face back down and fuck his mouth, can only laugh. It’s a hollow thing, disbelieving.

“It isn’t funny,” Connor says, and he pinches Hank’s thigh as if in punishment. “I mean it. Do you want me?” 

The laughter leaves Hank’s lips in the space of a few breathless moments, and he stares down at Connor -- the android still hovering over his slick, dripping cock. 

“I want you to answer me,” Connor says, rising up on his knees. “Before the Scarlet makes it too hard to think. I want you to tell me right now that you want me.”

“Shit, Con,” Hank whispers. “Of course I do.”

“And without the drugs,” Connor insists, a hand roaming to Hank’s chest, laying against his heartbeat. “Would you want me without the drugs?”

If Connor had asked him this mere minutes ago, Hank would worry over his answer, sure whatever he said could ruin their friendship, their partnership. He’d worry about pressuring Connor, forcing something on him he didn’t want.

But this is the same android who just swallowed down Hank’s cock like he needed it to live, so, well. Things have changed. Probably forever.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hank says on a swallow. “Wanted you way before this shit.”

Something in Connor’s demeanor relaxes, his face smoothing into a soft smile. And if anything could turn Hank on even more than the drugs coursing through his system, it would be that fucking look. Like Connor wanted him way before this shit, too.

“Then let me take care of you tonight,” Connor says; his hand crawls down Hank’s chest.

Hank can’t breathe. He figures, if he does die tonight, then this is the best way he could imagine his life to end. “How can a girl say no to that?” He chokes out.

Connor’s shining smile is reward enough.

This late at night, the parking lot lies blessedly empty of life, but Hank still tucks his slick cock back into his jeans before they traverse the short distance to their motel room. He’s still achingly hard, and he stumbles a little as he exits the car.

Thankfully, Connor is right there -- right there at Hank’s side like he always is, and he wraps an arm around Hank’s waist to help him onward. Hank sinks against the pressure of Connor’s arm, and the fantasies rear back into his head.  _ He could throw Connor onto the hood of one of these cars, tear open his jeans and fuck him right here in the parking lot.  _

“Fuck,” he groans, stumbling again, and Connor holds him steady. 

“Almost there, Hank,” Connor soothes, leading him forward. They take the first step of the stairs gently.

_ He could shove Connor to his knees on the stairs, stand behind him and pound into him while Connor’s nails scraped the concrete steps. He could make Connor cry out so loud he woke up everyone in the motel. He could -- _

Hank hisses, presses the heel of his palm against his erection again. Every step up those precarious stairs is agony, the pressure of his cock against his jeans. But relief lies just beyond their door, and Connor is here and Connor will help him.

_ Connor on his knees just inside the door, sucking Hank down, his fingers roaming up Hank’s thighs. He could fuck Connor on that filthy carpet, til the friction of the rug rubbed his synthskin raw, white chassis showing through. _

They don’t speak as they make their way inside, as Connor flicks on the light and Hank shuts the door behind himself. He leans heavy against it, chest heaving and heat climbing his neck. He’s sweating, and somehow Connor’s sharp look when he turns to regard Hank makes it worse.

“How bad is it, Hank?” Connor asks as he shrugs out of his jacket. His collared shirt is open at his neck, revealing that slope of skin that always draws Hank’s eye, and now seems to pull him in like gravity. He wants to lick into the hollow of Connor’s throat, feel Connor’s body beneath him. Even as he stares, his hands find his belt once more, yanking it open and tugging the zipper of his fly down. 

“Bad,” he croaks. Connor’s staring at him, something dark in his eyes that takes the breath from Hank’s lungs. 

  
  


And thank god, Connor approaches, standing just barely out of reach now. He’s popping his own belt buckle, fingertips lingering suggestively over the bulge in his own jeans. Hank’s laser-focused on those fingers, his breath sticking in his chest. He  _ wants _ .

Hank takes himself in hand, wiggling his boxers down over his ass so they bunch at his thighs. If it weren’t for the door holding him up, he’d fall right over, overwhelmed enough by the pressure of his own hand and the look in Connor’s eyes.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Connor says -- no,  _ demands _ . Hank whimpers.

“You,” he breathes, tugging quickly at his erection, still fully hard in spite of the two orgasms that have already wracked him tonight. Or maybe because of them.

“What about me?” Connor asks. His hands climb his body, finding the buttons of his shirt.

“Don’t tease me, Con,” Hank pleads, but his cock twitches in his fist at the thought anyway. Maybe he likes the tease -- maybe that’s something they can explore another day, when Hank’s life isn’t on the line. Right now, he just needs to throw Connor onto that bed and fuck him silly. He needs to come. He wants Connor to make him come. He slumps harder against the door, picking up the pace, jerking himself off furiously now. 

“What are you thinking about?” Connor asks again, softly. He unfastens the first button on his collar, then the next. The bulge in his jeans is only growing, and Hank doesn’t know what part of Connor’s body to focus on while the heat mounts in his gut. Connor’s watching him with the laser focus he usually lends to his work, his eyes hard and revealing nothing. It makes Hank’s knees weak, and he lets out a sound he doesn’t mean to let out.

“Need you,” Hank manages to say. “Wanna fuck you.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

The shirt drops from Connor’s shoulders to the floor, and Hank’s fist tightens over the head of his cock as it spurts white over his fingers. His body jerks and shudders, his head thunking back against the door, his vision going white as the orgasm shakes him. He might say Connor’s name, somewhere in the groan that he lets out, but he doesn’t know if he knows how to speak anymore. If he can do anything except ache and want and sag against the door.

Thankfully, Connor is here to help him. Just as Hank’s vision begins to clear, Connor surges forward, grabs Hank on either side of the face and pulls him in, crushing their lips together. Connor whimpers, shoves himself up against Hank’s body to pin him to the door. Though Hank’s cock is pressed hard between them, it’s the kiss that shorts out Hank’s senses. Hank thrusts his tongue between Connor’s lips, licking behind his teeth, only for Connor to tilt his head to take him in deeper. That sound rumbles in Connor’s chest again, his groan muffled by Hank’s mouth, and Hank loses himself in it. Connor’s hands travel down Hank’s neck to his chest, finding the collars of Hank’s shirt and pulling. Hard.

Buttons fly, fabric rends, and Connor breaks away to tear the shirt off Hank’s shoulders. Hank can only let him, can only watch him toss the ruined garment off to the side, can only pray Connor’s going to do that to his pants any second now.

But Connor comes back to him and steals another hard kiss, and this time Connor’s the one to lick between Hank’s lips, an experimental brush of his tongue that feels as insistent as it is tentative. And that’s when it hits Hank: This may be the first time Connor’s kissed anyone. The first time Connor’s ever sucked someone’s cock. Hank may be the first person ever to fuck him. Scarlet doesn’t work on Connor, but the way he keens into Hank’s mouth when he takes two handfuls of Hank’s chest -- well, it makes it seem like he’s drugged, too.

And Hank  _ needs  _ to fuck him.

Hank growls into Connor’s mouth and shoves off from the door, walking Connor backwards toward one of the narrow motel beds. Maybe another day, Hank would be content kissing Connor until he ran out of breath, but with the promise of that lithe body against him, the hot synthskin under his hands as Hank’s fingers curl into Connor’s back -- with the drug urging him on -- he needs more, and he needs it now.

“Con,” he chokes against Connor’s lips, just as Connor’s legs hit the back of the bed. 

“I know, baby,” Connor whispers. And oh, Hank  _ likes _ ‘baby.’ Connor runs his hands down Hank’s chest to his stomach, and the sound of his fans whirring to cool off his internals just gets louder. Connor sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, hands running down Hank’s hips to his thighs, tugging the boxers and the waistband of Hank’s jeans down as he goes. He’s dangerously close to Hank’s cock, his lips right there. And Hank nearly takes a fistfull of Connor’s hair so he can guide that perfect mouth to his head.

But Connor shuffles back on the bed, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his own pants, and Hank relishes the sight of him -- bare from the waist up, pants open, his own cock clearly hard under the tantalizing glimpse of his briefs. Hank kicks out of his jeans and shucks out of his shoes, fast and desperate.

All thoughts of self-consciousness are gone, replaced by a dull roar of arousal, need. He needs to be bare and pressed against Connor’s own bare body. He needs -- and Connor provides. Connor throws his pants off to the side, and Hank plants a knee on the bed. There will be time later to indulge in Connor’s body, to trace the moles and freckles that do, indeed, cover the rest of his skin. There will be time to ask why CyberLife gifted Connor with the most beautiful cock Hank’s ever seen, hard and pink and curved as if it were made for Hank’s hand to wrap around. 

Right now, Hank can only vaguely register any of those details and questions, his blood burning with the urge to get his lips on Connor’s skin, to get Connor right where he wants him.

Connor’s staring between his legs, his lips parted. “You’re so big,” he whispers, and Hank crawls forward, coaxing Connor to lay back as he settles between Connor’s legs and looms over him. Connor’s hands find Hank’s waist, squeezing at his fat. “ _ So _ big,” he whispers again. It’s reverent, like a prayer, and Hank ducks his head into Connor’s neck to reward him for the compliment, licking a stripe up to the lobe of his ear. 

“I’ll show you how big I am,” Hank rumbles, his hand coming to Connor’s thigh to lift it against his hip. Connor takes the hint and wraps his legs around Hank’s back, shoving their groins together. Hank groans, drops his forehead to Connor’s shoulder. “Fuck, Con,” he chokes. Connor tucks his nose against Hank’s hair, his arms wrapping around Hank’s back. 

“That’s the idea,” Connor whispers. “Take what you need from me, baby, please.” 

“Lube -- I don’t have --”

“You can’t hurt me,” Connor says, punctuating this with a nip to the shell of Hank’s ear. “You can fuck me all night, Hank. All night, as many times as you want. You can’t hurt me.” 

All night. 

Hank pulls back to meet Connor’s eyes, his own clouded, Connor’s heavy with lust. And he leans down to kiss him, to take those lips he’s dreamed about for months. Rocking his hips against Connor’s, Hank sucks sharp breaths through his nose, the slick slide of their skin almost enough to undo him again. But he wants more than this desperate rutting together -- the Scarlet in his system is begging him for more. And when he reaches between his legs to guide his cock to Connor’s hole, Connor whimpers with pure anticipation into Hank’s mouth. 

“That’s it, baby,” Connor whispers. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

And, finally, Hank sinks into him, one hard thrust burying him to his hilt.

Connor yelps as Hank groans, their lips going slack against each other. Hank doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t  _ this _ . Connor is wet inside, his walls soft and tight, practically pulling Hank deeper into him, even as he shoves his hips flush against Connor’s groin. “Fuck,” he grunts, pulling out just to thrust back in as Connor’s fingers scramble over his shoulder blades. “Fuck! You’re -- oh my  _ god _ .”

Connor’s breathing hard even as his fans are working overtime, and he still feels hot to the touch. “Oh,  _ oh _ , Hank,” he breathes on each thrust, his lips trying to form the shape of a kiss when words fail him. Hank bucks into him over and over again, so breathless he feels lightheaded, like he could pass out from the pleasure. Connor’s walls roll and clench around him, undulating and pulsating, with the steady hum of his systems sending a subtle vibration through Hank’s every nerve. He can’t find the words to tell Connor how he feels -- better than any of Hank’s fantasies. 

But maybe this is a dream, some filthy, gorgeous dream -- because Connor takes Hank easily, lifting his hips into Hank’s and whispering all the dirty things Hank’s imagined in Connor’s voice before. 

“So good,” Connor says, throwing a hand against the headboard to steady himself as Hank fucks him up the mattress, the sheets bunching under Connor’s back. “Oh, baby, you’re so good. Didn’t know it could -- could feel like this.” His eyes flutter rapidly, mechanically, and Hank doesn’t even realize he’s staring down at Connor until a drop of his sweat falls onto Connor’s cheek, sliding down like a tear. 

Connor’s channel clenches down onto his cock, and Hank plants his hands on either side of Connor’s head, using the leverage to pound into him. Connor gasps and whines beneath him, and tension spools tight in Hank’s groin. He’s close again, desperate, ready, but it’s Connor’s soft voice that does it: “Oh,  _ Hank _ . Come for me, baby.”

And Hank does. For the fourth time tonight, he throbs and jerks and spills his seed, this time into the tight heat of Connor’s body, shoving himself up against him so every drop --  _ every _ drop -- fills up Connor’s hole, spreads hot and thick inside him around Hank’s cock. Hank cries out, riding out his climax far past the point he would usually collapse, thrusting with wild abandon, the bed shaking beneath them and slamming against the wall. 

Connor writhes, wraps his legs around Hank’s back and digs his nails into Hank’s shoulder. He meets Hank’s eyes and holds them. “Again,” he chokes.

That’s all it takes. Hank crumples over Connor’s body, coming again impossibly soon, impossibly fast, crying out with the force of it. He jerks his hips, burying himself inside Connor even as his spend leaks out Connor’s hole and down the curve of his ass. Connor shudders beneath him, rutting up against Hank’s stomach, his own cock leaking. When did Connor come? Hank’s been so focused on his own release, he hasn’t taken care of him.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Hank mutters, voice strained. He lays kisses along the curve of Connor’s jaw, lazy and open-mouthed as he keeps thrusting into him. “Should take care of you.”

“You are,” Connor rushes to say. He grabs Hank by the hair and tilts his head to meet his eyes. Connor’s are glazed over entirely, blissed out like Hank’s always wanted to see him. “You’re taking such good care of me, baby. I’ve never felt anything --  _ anything _ like this.”

A pleased little growl catches in Hank’s chest, and he rests his forehead against Connor’s, breathing hard into Connor’s mouth. “Me neither, sweetheart. Fuck, you feel like a fleshlight.” 

He rocks his hips, rolling into Connor again and again, slower this time, just to feel Connor’s walls pulsing around him.

“I was made for this,” Connor admits. He thumbs a streak of sweat from Hank’s brow. “To be anything anyone wanted. I wanted to be what you wanted.”

Hank leans in to kiss him, stealing the quiet sadness from the sound of Connor’s voice. How could Connor not have known? How could Connor -- brilliant, observant, intuitive Connor -- somehow miss that Hank had fallen for him months ago?

But, then, Hank had missed it, too. If he knew he could have Connor like this, he never would have waited for some fucking drug to push him to make a move. He reaches to Connor’s thighs, lifting them so he can set Connor’s legs on his shoulders. The movement pulls him out, and his cum leaks wet and white down Connor’s ass. 

“Keep going, please,” Connor whispers into Hank’s mouth.

“Can’t --  _ fuck _ . Can’t stop, sweetheart,” Hank grits out. 

Where normally an orgasm might provide relief, he’s nowhere  _ close  _ to relief now. The Scarlet seems to strengthen each time he comes, the fog getting thicker, the need burning hotter. He slams into Connor’s ass, shoving Connor all the way up the bed with a bitten-off cry, and in three more deep thrusts he comes again, his whole body shuddering with the onslaught of pleasure. 

Connor pumps his own cock as Hank keeps fucking him, hard and fast and deep. Every time Connor cries out and his seed splatters his stomach, Hank groans and jerks and floods him, and Connor moans words of praise and encouragement. Connor’s hands eventually find the bedsheets, curling into them like Hank’s always imagined, too overwhelmed to do much of anything except let Hank fuck him.

Like Hank, Connor’s erection never flags -- the wonder of modern technology -- and by the time Hank’s muscles give out and he collapses onto Connor’s narrow frame, he has no idea how many times they’ve come together. His cock feels raw and wet, but no softer than it was when Connor fit his lips around it in the car. “Fuck,” he curses quietly, his back and legs aching and burning from the strain. “Sweetheart, I can’t --”

Connor holds Hank against him, reaching between them to wrap his hand around Hank’s cock. “Shh,” he whispers into Hank’s hair. “Stay there, baby. I’ve got you.” He lines their cocks up, pumps them both, his hand wet with their combined come. They’re both soaked with it, filthy, the smell of sex choking the room, but Hank can’t care about any of that when he’s spilling over Connor’s hand again, gasping against that sharp collarbone. Pressed against Connor’s cock, he’s overwhelmed by the difference in their size, and something shamefully proud makes him shudder and jerk out another climax at that thought alone. He’s _ big _ . And Connor _ likes _ it.

Any other partner might feel crushed under Hank’s weight, but Connor bears his full load, rutting up against him, mouthing against his skin, whispering sweet nothings into his ear until Hank’s a trembling mess above him. He’s limp and useless, groaning and panting, clutching Connor like a lifeline. And Connor’s seeing him through it, coming nearly every time Hank does, as if it’s Hank’s pleasure that pushes him over the edge.

“Beautiful,” Connor whispers in Hank’s hair as Hank shudders another release over Connor’s smooth stomach. “So beautiful for me, baby.”

It takes moments -- or maybe hours -- for Connor to take control of their position. At some point, Connor rolls Hank over onto his back and climbs into his lap, sinking down onto his cock like he’s done this a thousand times.

He might get there, before the night’s out. 

Hank bucks his hips up and spills inside him, undone at the mere sight of Connor moving above him, his hand planted on Hank’s stomach to steady himself as he rolls his hips. The bed’s creaking again, hitting the wall, and every time Hank comes Connor moves faster, harder, not a hint of fatigue in the way he rides Hank through the shockwaves. He squeezes Hank’s belly, rises and falls onto the spear of his dick, lolls his head back and comes over Hank’s chest. 

His chest hair is already sticky with sweat and spunk, but when Connor runs his fingers through it, it’s the sexiest sight Hank could imagine. Those slender, strong fingers, covered with Hank’s come.

Past words now, maybe long past words, Hank just sobs and swears and leaves himself at the mercy of the Scarlet and the man moving above him. Each orgasm bleeds into the next until he’s pumping a steady stream of come into Connor’s ass, jerking up into him, hearing on the vague outskirts of his thoughts the keening cries that Connor lets out. 

_ “So full,” he thinks he hears Connor say at some point, static crackling under each word. “Oh, god, Hank, I’m so full.” _

That could just be a fantasy. All this some fever dream brought on by the drug. But if it is, then Hank may just understand why Scarlet hooks people the way it does. It’s the best dream he’s ever had, and even as his back aches and Connor fucks his cock raw, he doesn’t want it to end.

At some point, Connor tilts a glass of water against Hank’s lips, and Hank blinks his eyes open, unaware that he’d passed out at all. But he drinks; and when he drops the empty glass to the floor he reaches blindly for Connor’s hand, and Connor laces their fingers together as he kneels between Hank’s legs and takes him into his mouth. 

Hours pass -- untold hours. With the curtains closed, it’s impossible to tell whether the sun has risen or not, or whether they’ve fucked away the whole next day. Hank falls asleep at some point to Connor’s hand wrapped around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth, and when he wakes up, Connor’s sucking him off with two fingers buried in Hank’s ass, massaging his prostate so thoroughly that Hank comes the moment consciousness finds him. 

This is where he would have died, without Connor. The point he could no longer lift an arm to wrap a hand around his cock. This is where the Scarlet would have taken him. But he’s not worried now. Connor’s right here, like he always is, and when Hank’s awake and aware he sees the slope of Connor’s back while Connor’s turned around, riding him into oblivion, the look Connor gives him over his shoulder, the lust and the love behind those dark eyes. 

Hank tries to tell Connor, when each orgasm feels nearly painful and tears are streaming senselessly down his cheeks. The words try to make it to his lips while Connor’s sucking a hickey into his neck and rolling back onto Hank’s cock. It’s not the most romantic time to slur “I love you,” and with the Scarlet in his system he’s not even sure Connor will believe him, but he tries anyway.

Within the roar of the Scarlet’s burning need, Connor’s response breaks through, gasped and whispered but undeniable in its truth. “God, Hank. I love you, too.”

* * *

It’s pretty satisfying, after all these long weeks, to watch Chris Miller shoving the sleezeball into the back of a police cruiser. The gang’s whole stock of Scarlet has been confiscated, all the dealers arrested, and the task force he and Connor lead will probably get a nice commendation for their work dismantling one of the biggest sources of Scarlet in the city.

Connor stands beside him, close and warm and steady, and Hank tilts his head to give his partner a smile. “I think we did alright,” Hank says, his voice raw and weak from the night before. He tried to explain it away to Chris earlier -- he’s getting laryngitis, that’s all. Considering Chris was the one to respond to the noise complaint at the motel last night, he doubts the good officer believes him.

“It was touch and go there for a while,” Connor says, but he’s smiling too. “But yes, we achieved our objective.”

“And that’s not all we ‘achieved,’” Hank says, raising his eyebrows suggestively and bumping his hip against Connor’s. 

Connor rolls his eyes. “I know for a fact that the Scarlet is out of your system, Lieutenant,” he says, the title a clear indicator that they are at work, and now is not the time to bring up the rather life-altering development between them. “You have no reason to be acting lascivious right now.”

Hank shrugs, lifts his hand to wave as the cruiser drives off with the sleezeball locked in back. “Maybe not, but I got plenty of reason to feel a little smug.”

When he glances to Connor again, Connor’s fighting back a smile. “I guess you’re allowed to be a _ little  _ smug,” he concedes. 

And though there’s activity buzzing around them -- crime scene investigators bagging up drugs and officers dragging dealers into their cars -- Hank thinks he can risk it. He flings an arm over Connor’s shoulder, pulling him in close. 

“Jeff called,” he says. “Gave us the rest of the day off for our hard work. What do you say we head home?” 

Connor raises an eyebrow at him, but his fans hum tellingly. “To do what, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s grin feels lewd, suggestive, maybe too revealing. But he’s too happy to keep it in. He leans his lips to Connor’s ear, enjoying the shiver that passes through his partner’s frame. “Whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come scream at me on Twitter about HankCon and Spirk and all that good gay shit: [@AdmiralLiss](https://twitter.com/AdmiralLiss)


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